


"ARE YOU NASTY?" ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

by michaelandthegodsquad



Series: Drabbles and prompt fills [2]
Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Gym AU, M/M, Pick-Up Lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4609266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelandthegodsquad/pseuds/michaelandthegodsquad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guy tips his chin towards Rhys’s legs, which now feel overwhelmingly bare and gangly. “Your shorts?” the guy says, like Rhys should have just known what he was talking about. “The answer is yes.”</p><p>Rhys furrows his brows again, confused, and glances down at his probably indecently short shorts. They’re red, and he realizes he doesn’t actually recognize them as his own. Twisting around to look at the back, his heart drops to his feet and he groans. Of course, in his barely-awake state he’d grabbed someone else’s shorts. Of course they had to be Yvette’s. And of course they’re the Panic! at the Disco ones that read “ARE YOU NASTY?” in bold letters across the ass. Of course.</p><p>OR: In which Rhys goes for a run in the park and meets Jack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"ARE YOU NASTY?" ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scootsaboot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scootsaboot/gifts), [lelelego](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lelelego/gifts).



> Another prompt fill!
> 
> scootsaboot: ...rhys...stretching at the park?  
> scootsaboot: jogging?  
> scootsaboot: jack stares at his ass?  
> lelelego: gym au  
> scootsaboot: he has those shorts that say 'are you nasty' on the butt
> 
> Unbeta'd. If you notice any errors, I'd appreciate you pointing them out!

Rhys hates everything, okay? He hates waking up. He hates the sun and the fact that it’s still not up when he gets dressed. He hates that he has to grab random clothes from the laundry basket because no one has put any of it away yet. He hates Vaughn for drunkenly taking his shirt off at Scooter’s birthday party and making Rhys glance down at his own soft stomach and feel inadequate. He hates Yvette and her weirdly provocative shorts, and he hates himself for not sorting all of their clothes out after he’d pulled them out of the dryer, or at least for not checking whose shorts he had grabbed this morning in his exhaustion. And most of all, Rhys _hates_ exercising.

He manages to get through his warm-up just as the sun makes its way past the horizon, and the run itself is not… _terrible,_ he guesses. He’s winded by the time he makes his way around the park, but he actually feels pretty good, energized by his quickened pulse and weirdly satisfied with the slight burn in his muscles. He frowns when his pedometer says he only ran two miles, but sighs, shrugs, and begins a few cool-down stretches.

His knees are killing him, but that’s almost to be expected at this point. A few minutes in, he spaces his feet apart, right one a couple of feet in front of the other, and keeps his right knee straight as he dips forward to touch his toes. He holds the position, not hearing when a fellow runner rounds the corner behind him. He doesn’t hear the way said runner pauses behind Rhys, doesn’t see the way he tilts his head and stares at Rhys’s ass, doesn’t see the way he tugs out his headphones and doesn’t hear the way he whispers “ _Nice,”_ on an exhale. Rhys keeps his back turned even as he moves into other stretches, oblivious to everything except the thoughts of what he’ll have for breakfast.

After a few minutes the guy clears his throat from behind Rhys, says, “The answer is yes, in case you were wondering.” Rhys turns with furrowed brows to ask who he is and what the hell he’s talking about, but pauses when he actually sees the guy, mouth dropping open.

He’s shirtless, of course, chest covered in a light dusting of hair and a thin sheet of sweat, much like his toned, tattooed arms. Rhys’s eyes trail down to his loose-fitting shorts and equally toned legs before raking back up to his face, the cocky grin beneath mischievous eyes and raised brows. Rhys almost sighs at the headband holding back the guy’s dark, gray-streaked hair. He looks like a total douchebag and Rhys is  _totally into it._

The guy catches him staring and Rhys quickly shuts his mouth, diverting his eyes for a moment as he flushes. “What was that?” he finally replies, looking at the guy’s face, which…actually isn’t much less distracting. Shit.

The guy tips his chin towards Rhys’s legs, which now feel overwhelmingly bare and gangly. “Your shorts?” the guy says, like Rhys should have just known what he was talking about. “The answer is yes.”

Rhys furrows his brows again, confused, and glances down at his probably indecently short shorts. They’re red, and he realizes he doesn’t actually recognize them as his own. Twisting around to look at the back, his heart drops to his feet and he groans.  _Of course,_ in his barely-awake state he’d grabbed someone else’s shorts. _Of course_ they had to be Yvette’s. And  _of course_ they’re the Panic! at the Disco ones that read “ARE YOU NASTY?” in bold letters across the ass.  _Of course._

He quickly looks back at the guy, flush deepening. “These aren’t mine!” he yelps quickly, and the guy looks like he’s holding back a laugh. “They’re  _not!_ They’re Yvette’s. She’s my roommate. And my friend.  _Just_ my friend,” he tacks on at the end, and wishes for the ground to open and swallow him whole.

The guy raises his hands, shaking his head. “Hey, doesn’t matter to me, cupcake. Just saw a question and thought I’d answer.” He actually fucking  _winks,_ then, and Rhys begs for a lightning strike or  _something._

“Yeah, well.” His arm comes up to rub at the back of his own neck, and he hisses at the cold metal. “That’s uh. That’s good. For you, I mean.”

And then the guy smirks and shrugs. “Hey, could be good for you too.” Rhys’s eyes widen and the guy chuckles, reaching into his pocket and taking a step forward. “Listen, kiddo, if you feel like getting in shape—which,” he says, raking his eyes down Rhys’s body and grinning lasciviously, “isn’t really necessary, if you ask me—” He finally pulls a business card out of his pocket, handing it over to Rhys. “I own a gym not too far from here. You should stop by, ask for Jack. We can have ourselves a little personal training session.”

He winks again, laughing when Rhys just gapes, which Rhys isn’t proud of, alright? He’s usually  _fine_ talking to attractive people, it’s just—it’s still too early, and this guy—Jack—is  _very_ distracting. From this close Rhys can see the planetary theme of his sleeve of tattoos and just. Shut up, okay?

Finally pulling himself together, Rhys looks at the card, the embossed letters telling him that the Helios Gym is only a few blocks from here. “You’re telling me,” he says, looking back up at Jack, “that you own a gym, but you’re running around the park?”

Jack shrugs. “What can I say, cupcake, I like the view.” He laughs again, biting his lip, and Rhys is a fucking goner. “Anyway, I gotta run, kiddo. See you around, though?” Jack doesn’t wait for an answer, grinning as he continues his run. Rhys watches the muscles in his retreating back work, and sighs, thinking that maybe he doesn’t hate exercise so much after all.


End file.
